The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

“That counts as composure in my profession.”

You almost laugh.

As you step into the aisle, Rebecca moves in front of you.

Up close, the perfection is thinner. Her foundation sits too heavily at the edge of her nose. Her mascara has begun to smudge. Her mouth trembles not with grief but with fury so concentrated it looks almost elegant.

“You knew,” she says.

You tilt your head. “About the money? Eventually.”

“No. About us. You knew and you let him keep planning.”

You glance past her at Damian, who is arguing in fierce whispers with his attorney. Then you look back at her. “I knew enough to wait.”

Her face twists. “You could have told me.”

You study her for a long second.

This woman sat in restaurants across from your husband while he lied about working late. She walked into an apartment partly funded with stolen money and never once asked why he needed secrecy. She stood outside a courtroom this morning and implied your pregnancy made you professionally inadequate. And now, suddenly, she wants sisterhood.

The absurdity of it nearly shines.

“You’re right,” you say mildly. “I could have. But then I would have robbed you of the exact experience you spent months building for me.”

She goes white.